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Gillian

S he saw it—just a standard plastic grocery bag. Nothing special. I told her she had three minutes to give me what I wanted. I was being generous, seeing as that was two too many. As ungrateful as ever, she didn’t even thank me. She didn’t even speak. Just shook her head. Like she thought she was still in control. Like she still believed in the system that built her.

I put the bag over her head and held it tight. Just long enough to send a message. Then I let her breathe. Just once. Let her suck in air like it would save her. I told her I’d do it again. And again. Until she gave me the location.

The third time, she cracked.

Back bedroom. Closet. Behind the shoe boxes.

I left her gasping on the floor while I checked. She didn’t lie.

There were eight journals.

I took them. Lined them up on the counter so she could see them.

Proof that she’d failed.

Then I returned to her side.

She was slumped against the cabinets, still breathing, eyes glassy.

She asked if I was going to kill her.

I said yes.

She didn’t beg.

That surprised me.

I put the bag over her head.

Plastic. Standard. The kind you keep under the sink.

I tied it tight. Rubber band first. Then duct tape. Watched her body shift from struggle to twitch.

She thrashed, but not much. She was already weak from the hit. I watched her struggle to fill her lungs. The bag pressed tighter, her body jerking, a final attempt at control. I counted the seconds. Not for science, just to make sure. Four minutes is longer than you think.

I watched her eyes through the plastic—watched them lose focus. Watched her mouth form shapes that had no sound.

I didn’t speak.

There was nothing left to say.

When it was done, I peeled the bag off carefully. It was strange, her slack features, strange seeing a woman like Andra so quiet, so still.

I checked her pulse—her wrist, cold, lifeless. I held it a beat too long, not out of doubt, but because I needed to remember the moment. Not for her, but for me. The finality. Her breath, her existence no longer a threat to my plans.

Her hands were cold.

Her mouth was open.

Her eyes were still.

She didn’t look sorry.

But she didn’t look smug either.

So maybe that was something.

I smoothed her hair because I know that would be important to her. Tidied up. Locked the door behind me. Walked away with the journals in a tote bag over my shoulder.

The street outside was quiet. Pink sky. Dry air. A man watering his lawn two houses down didn’t even look up.

Now I’m here. Drinking coffee. Picking dried blood from under my nails.

I don’t feel different.

She wasn’t the first. She won’t be the last.

But she’s the first I chose. And that, in itself, makes me almost happy.

I fold the napkin on my table into quarters, then eighths, then smaller still. My hands are steady now. They didn’t used to be.

The resets have stopped. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because they’re under investigation. Maybe they ran out of things to take. Maybe they think I’ve lost the thread. That I’m docile again. Useful.

They’re wrong.

I’m not useful.

I’m not docile.

And I didn’t forget.

Not everything.

There are holes, sure. Days I can’t place. Conversations that vanish when I try to replay them. But some things stayed.

The texture of a lie.

The echo of a voice I trusted too long.

The look in Devon’s eyes as she said, “ You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve done for you.”

Devon.

I remember the way she smiled when she thought she was winning. I remember the things she whispered when I couldn’t answer—soft, vile things, like she was playing nurse to her own sickness. I remember the betrayal like it was stitched into my skin.

She thought I’d break.

She thought I’d stay broken.

She thought I’d forget.

They all did.

But what they don’t understand—what none of them understands—is that forgetting and pretending aren’t the same thing.

I didn’t forget.

I just waited.

Because that’s what survival is. Not just breathing. Not just enduring. It’s patience. Letting them think they’ve won—until it’s time to remind them they’re wrong.

I pull out my phone.

No hesitation. No question. Just muscle memory.

The message is drafted.

Short. Simple. Familiar.

Do you have what it takes to be in my world? Check yes or no.

I don’t reread it.

I just hit send.

I stare out the window as it goes. A car passes. A couple laughs too loudly. Somewhere down the block, a child screams with joy or fear—I can’t tell which, and it doesn’t matter.

I finish my coffee. No rush.

Because I know what comes next.

They thought I was something they could control.

They were wrong.

And now?

Now, I know where to aim.